


Always Summer, Always Alone

by jamlocked, Vivian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Art, Brideshead Revisited AU, M/M, Pre-War, fic/art collaboration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-04
Updated: 2017-03-04
Packaged: 2018-09-27 07:12:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9982310
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jamlocked/pseuds/jamlocked, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vivian/pseuds/Vivian
Summary: So, Valentin showed methisclip from the movie of Brideshead Revisited, and we got to talking and long story short, here is Sherlock and Jim, on a summer's night at the Holmes mansion, enjoying the glorious summer of youth.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Art on V's Tumbr [here](http://summeringminor.tumblr.com/post/157960367223/they-looked-at-each-other-close-very-close).

 

 

 

‘So. James.’

Sherlock lifted his glass to his lips in an effort to hide his smile. The pause between the words meant only one thing. Mummy was _very_ angry.

‘Sherlock tells us you’re also a scientist.’

‘Oh. Well.’ 

This time it was an effort not to laugh out loud. 

‘-not _quite_ like him, I’m afraid. I’m reading a double; Physics and Mathematics.’

The surprise on his parent’s faces was too much. Sherlock snorted into his wine glass, sending droplets flying over the pristine tablecloth, and his pristine shirt, onto the pristine salad. It would be all right if they looked annoyed, he thought, as Butler rushed over to begin mopping up. But their effort to remain fastidiously polite in the face of a perceived insult - good Lord, they were ridiculous.

‘ _Sherlock_.’

‘Apologies. Mummy. Papa. Apologies.’

Jim began cutting through a leaf of lettuce. He speared it with his fork, trapped it with his knife. One single leaf. Sherlock fought the bubble of hilarity with all his might, trying not to watch him saw through it, his face effortlessly calm.

‘ _Anyway_. Physics, eh? Not bad, not bad.’

Oh, marvellous. The old man _would_ feel he had to weigh in. It was a wonder anything could be understood through the weight of his walrus moustache.

‘Can’t be doing with all those - what is it? Humanities, isn’t it? That’s what they call it now. Literature and whatnot. _Arts_. Waste of bloody time, what?’

‘Oh, yes. I quite agree,’ Jim said, bringing half a neat leaf to his mouth. ‘Entirely stupid. The chaps can’t show their faces at formal hall, you know. Pariahs, the lot of them. If one or two appear, they’re shunted to the end of the bench. We can’t be doing with them at all.’

Sherlock dug his fingernails into his leg under the table, and willed himself not to breathe. He had to look away when his father set his jaw, and gave a firm, approving, nod. Mummy looked a little startled, and _Mycroft_ …Mycroft was staring at Sherlock with ice in his eyes, entirely unamused. Of course.

‘We’ve started a petition,’ he said, in order to give Jim time to pick a slice of cucumber to politely cut in half. ‘All the science lot. We want them out, but there’s rather a row about it. Some say if we tell the Literature people to push off, we’d have to tell the Classics lot the same. Which is all very well, but they’ve been around longer than we have, I think. And some of them are frightfully good at rugby, and there’s the match against Cambridge coming up. We were thinking of asking the Union to debate it, see if they can sort it out for us.’

His father blinked at him. He stared back, willing the old man to take offence, until Mycroft shifted in his seat and broke the silence. 

‘ _Father_. Have you spoken to Barraclough about the West Indian matter? He rather thought you might have some-‘

Sherlock tuned out and glanced at his mother, who was glaring at Jim. Jim did not seem to mind. He didn’t seem to have noticed. He was tapping the side of his knife against a radish, as if deciding whether it deserved the sharp edge or not. If there was a slight curve at the corner of his mouth, surely it was just a trick of the light. That was what his mother would tell herself, anyway.

‘What sort of physics?’ she blurted, too loud, cutting through the inane murmuring of her husband and eldest son. ‘What’s your area, James?’

He looked up, as if puzzled such a thing would ever be asked. ‘I’m interested in astronomy, Lady Holmes,’ he said, in a mild tone. ‘A clever fellow called Milne has come to the department recently. He’s a Fellow at Wadham; fascinating work on stellar atmospheres, and quite a friendly thing, you know?’

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. Jim knew he didn’t like hearing about how friendly Milne could be. His mother was not looking his way, though. She had two cocktails before dinner; Sherlock was aware it was only the lack of a third that was preventing her voicing the matter at the root of her disapproval. He found himself hoping she overindulged on wine through the meal.

‘I don’t see the _point_ ,’ she declared, in ringing tones. ‘Is there nothing of scientific interest on Earth you could look at? Basing your thesis on stars and things…it all seems rather inane to me.’

Jim, to his credit - or rather for his own amusement, as Sherlock was very much aware - looked nothing more than a little surprised.

‘Perhaps you’re right, your Ladyship. Something more practical. I’ll look into it.’

Her gaze turned harder still. Jim returned it, nothing but polite. But he didn’t look away either; didn’t bow or break under the judgement of her eyes, did nothing but gaze gently back. It was she who straightened and moved her arm a little to the side, close enough to her husband that he brushed her elbow, which gave her an excuse to end the contact. She blinked, and then picked up her wine. Jim glanced to Sherlock, then went back to his salad. Sherlock felt the desperate need, again, to apologise for the existence of these people. Yes, it was their home; yes, Jim was a guest; no, he was not sorry he wished they were all gone, and it was just the two of them roaming around the place as they had been since the end of term. If they had to be bored, at least allow them solitude as well.

Mycroft turned his conversation to something that included their mother. She stopped glaring at Jim, so Sherlock stopped watching her. He thought about trying his own salad and speared a tomato, but the effort of bringing it to his mouth defeated him. The air was too hot, too heavy, too stormy under the veneer of calm the presence of his parents always forced upon the place. It was unusual for them to drag themselves away from the London season for even a weekend, particularly this close to the end of it. The only explanation was that they were checking up on him - and more likely, investigating the friend he had brought from Oxford.

Imagine their surprise, he thought, as he brought his wine to his mouth again, to find that he’s Irish. Imagine their _horror_. 

A foot nudged against his under the table. Sherlock looked up to meet Jim’s eyes, which flickered down to his plate and back up again. He nodded reluctantly, and ate the tomato. They had agreed earlier that behaving - to a certain degree - was necessary through dinner, because the parents must be made to go away again. And Mycroft too, especially Mycroft.

But that didn’t stop Jim flouting their agreement, of course. Sherlock would be annoyed about that, if it weren’t so hilarious.

‘You must tell us, James,’ came his mother’s voice, and Sherlock resisted the temptation to roll his eyes, ‘are your people currently in London?’

Sherlock’s fork stilled over his plate, before he placed it down. But Jim showed no sign of how much this was a question he would hate.

‘I don’t have any, Lady Holmes. Only a brother, and he’s back in Dublin.’

‘None at all? How very strange.’

‘Not really.’ And now, there was the hint of an edge. Sherlock’s eyes flitted to Mycroft when he moved in his seat. ‘They’re dead. And I’m at Oxford on a scholarship.’

‘Oh, I see.’

Yes, thought Sherlock. You do. You think he’s poor - and by your standards, of course he is. He’s not old money, and therefore doesn’t count.

God, he hated them. _Hated_ them.

His mother signalled to Butler to come and remove the salad. The main course was served almost before the plates were cleared; an enormous side of beef, mounds of vegetables, a tureen of roast potatoes that glistened with lard over the brown-and-black searing of the kitchen’s ancient stove. Perfect, and awful. It was too hot for anything but fruit and wine, and Sherlock longed to be outside for sunset, the way they had been every evening in the stretch of this never-ending blaze of June.

Father was talking about the gold standard. Mycroft was listening, interjecting caution, trying to tell his father something important without spelling it out, as he had been all day. The situation in Europe was worsening. Even Sherlock knew it, though he didn’t care. It wasn’t important. What was important was that everyone should go away.

Another nudge of his foot. He ate some beef, and forced down a bite of potato. The gravy was rich, and thick, and coated his mouth with the memory of countless interminable dinners at this very table. He choked it down with some wine, and dreamed of fresh air and the smell of gunpowder clinging to sun-warmed skin. His dinner jacket was stifling; his bow tie pressing uncomfortably on his throat. He thought of sitting on the fountain two days ago while Jim drew him in charcoal, and lounging in the summer house as they discussed taking the car to town again, relaxed in loose shirts and linens as they watched the sun go down on another day of living in each other’s minds. They hadn’t talked about what happened last time they ventured beyond the grounds, and the continued lack of appearance by the police…but they didn’t need to talk about that. It had all worked exactly as Jim said it would. He should never have doubted it would be so.

‘Are you coming to the Huntington’s ball on Saturday, Sherlock? I told Her Ladyship you could be expect-‘

‘No.’

Even Mycroft’s political diversions couldn’t stop silence dropping back over the table. Perhaps he had been a little sharp, but _no_ , he would not be attending the Huntington’s ball.

‘But why ever not? Lady H-‘

‘I don’t want to, mummy. I loathe balls, and you know it. London is unbearable at the end of the season. Jim and I are staying here.’

‘Sherlock-‘

‘ _No_ , mother. Besides, you only want me to show an interest in the daughter. It’s never happened before, it’s not going to happen now.’

After a moment or two, even Sherlock was aware this made his mother uncomfortable in an entirely new way. As if there were something unspoken sitting on the table next to the roast, a question they would never let themselves ask of their youngest son. The only sound in the room was a gentle rasp, followed by a quiet scrape of metal on china. Jim, apparently, was not affected by awkward silences. He was not letting it get in the way of finishing his dinner.

Father began harrumphing, and muttering under his breath. Mycroft glared daggers at Sherlock. Mummy seemed quite at a loss, so she turned on Jim and opened her mouth, her face like thunder…until Jim’s fork paused in mid-air, potato halfway to his mouth.

‘I think you should go, Sherlock.’

His tone was still mild. Gentle, even. The table settled to hear it, the wind neatly removed from everyone’s sails. Especially his own. Sherlock frowned, and then scowled.

‘I don’t want to.’

The foot under the table nudged his again. Jim did not look up. But realisation dawned - unwelcome as it was - and Sherlock’s annoyance turned to a sudden thrill of anticipation.

‘If you think I should go, then you’ll have to come with me. I’m not facing that lot alone,’ he said, with open derision. It wouldn’t do to look as though he were so easily led by Jim. Not in front of Mycroft. 

‘I’m not invited,’ Jim pointed out, finally looking up at Sherlock, with a tiny smile and mischief in his eyes.

‘Mummy, tell Lady Huntington I’m bringing a friend, won’t you?’

He said it without looking around, knowing exactly what the response would be.

‘Of course, Sherlock. You know Her Ladyship never minds friends.’

Her tone was far more friendly. He knew, should he look at her, she would be smiling at Jim. She’d forgive the wardrobe transgression, for this favour. She wouldn’t forgive him being Irish, but she’d deign to forget it for the rest of the evening. Mummy was happy with anything, as long as Sherlock was behaving like _normal_ people did.

 

*

 

‘Sherlock!’

‘Oh, good God,’ he muttered, making Jim snort with laughter. ‘Will this evening never end? _What,_ Mycroft?’

‘I’m sorry to see Oxford hasn’t improved your manners. James, would you excuse us, please? I need a word with my brother.’

‘Of course.’

Jim looked amused. Sherlock shot him a warning glance, and then waved his hand in the direction of the study. ‘There’s drinks in there, Jim. We’ll take them outside, if you’ll wait a minute.’

‘I’ll meet you out there,’ he murmured, and slid off in the direction of alcohol. Sherlock had to resist the urge to watch him leave.

‘Your behaviour at dinner was abominable.’

‘You sound surprised. What do you want, Mycroft?’

The study door closed quietly to their right. There was a pause of perhaps five seconds, enough to allow Jim to retreat from the door, and then; ‘your friend. Who is he?’

‘You’ve met him. I’ve told you his name. He’s a student. All things you already know, and I don’t know what else you want.’

He expected Mycroft to launch into a diatribe of his unsuitability at this point. It would not surprise him, because Jim _was_ unsuitable, in every way these people held dear. He was Irish. He was poor. He was far, far cleverer than any one of them would ever be, and he had that way of letting it be known, even when he was being nothing but polite.

He was also, unquestionably, dangerous. Sherlock knew his parents would never be able to put their finger on why they found him unsettling, and would chalk it up to any of the other excuses they used to forgive themselves for being snobs. But that was not the truth. The truth was, Jim was unsettling because he was lethal. 

He glanced up when he realised Mycroft had not responded. He was taken aback to find a look of concern on his brother’s face. Muted, to be sure, and his eyes were as sharp as ever. But still. Concern.

‘James Moriarty.’

‘Yes. I expect you’ll go and look into him. Don’t you always, with my pals?’

‘I will. Be careful, Sherlock.’

He snorted, and moved past Mycroft. Of all the inane warnings to hand out. He just walked on, dismissing it from his mind, until-

‘Why on earth did you tell him it was all right to wear a kimono at dinner?’

Sherlock smiled, and opened the study door.

‘I didn’t.’

 

*

 

 

He found Jim sitting on the steps of the entrance to the west wing of the house. It afforded a perfect view of the sunset, nothing between them and the sky but acres and acres of neatly-mown grass, a few trees to the side, the lake at the bottom of a gentle slope. It was warm, and silent save for some insects in the grass, and the far-off drone of a tractor coming in from a field. The sky was a haze of gentle blue, swirling into soft pink and yellow, before meeting the deep red sliding down the horizon and drawing twilight along with it. Jim was sitting with his back against a column, and ten or so bottles lined up along the paving slabs, two glasses in front of each. He was sipping wine, and the colour of it threw red shadows along his cheek and down his neck, as though fingers were reaching along his skin, melting into the silk collar clasped around his throat.

Sherlock swallowed, and found his mouth dry. He had spent many long hours contemplating the way Jim looked this summer - smiling in the sun, and lazy as they lay in the grass. The way he frowned in concentration when he drew, and the mischievous grin as he punted them across the lake, singing off-colour Irish songs that would make Lady Holmes apoplectic if she heard even a word of them. Sherlock knew the curl of his smile, and the way his hair clung behind his ear and against his neck; his clever fingers on the piano keys in the library. And on that memorable night in the village, crowing with wild laughter in the light of the moon, a gun in his hand and blood on his cheek, a white demon dancing in black eyes. Alive with mania, unfettered genius. A devil unleashed. 

He forced a smile as Jim looked up, offering a glass. He took it in one hand and tugged his bow tie open with the other, trying to cover the way his insides felt as if they’d turned to liquid metal. But Jim would know, of course. Jim always knew.

‘Why did you wear a kimono? I thought we were going to present a united front.’

Jim shrugged, and picked up another glass. ‘Changed my mind. I couldn’t resist seeing if they’d mention it.’

‘Of course they wouldn’t mention it.’

‘I bet Mycroft did.’

Sherlock made a small noise to acknowledge it and sat down next to him, shoulder to shoulder against the pillar. It was heaven to release his collar. Even more to just let the evening go, and allow the peace of the grounds to roll up from the lake. It settled over them until they were both just breathing, fully aware of each other but with no need to speak. There was hardly ever a need to speak. Jim calmed Sherlock in a way no one had ever been able to, simply by removing the need to dwell on anything inane. Petty details did not need to be discussed, or explained, ever. 

‘If you’d wanted to go to London, you could have just said,’ he murmured eventually.

‘I know something about Lord Huntingdon. It’ll be good to meet him in person.’

‘Mm.’

Interesting. There were a number of things that could be. Sherlock decided to wait and see.

‘And of course, we don’t have to stay long. The city will be at our disposal.’

Sherlock watched a female duck splash out of the lake in the distance, quacking at the tiny ripples denoting her chicks behind her. They were too far off to be seen, too small, but he knew they were there. He wondered whether, eventually, Jim would be able to say _London is at our feet._ If he did, it would be true. 

‘It should be fun,’ he said, and sipped his wine, aware that Jim had turned his head to look at him. Aware that Jim looked at him as much as he looked at Jim. But he was not, he thought, as sure of what that meant. Of what he wanted it to mean.

‘Sherlock.’

‘Mm?’

‘I know you don’t mind me poking fun at your parents. But…you don’t mind, do you?’

Sherlock rolled his head on the pillar, so he could look at him. ‘Of course I don’t mind. They’re awful.’

‘Still.’

It was telling, that no inane detail needed to be checked. But Jim would check on this one…and it was not, Sherlock realised, to test what he really thought about his parents. He had always been clear on that, and despite Jim having none of his own, he understood the interplay of familial relationships perfectly. He was testing loyalty, in a small way. Or perhaps just pretending to check, to make himself seem a normal human. He was good at pretending to be that.

‘You don’t have to do that,’ Sherlock said, because it was important that he knew. And Jim smiled, relieved, and…pleased. Pleased, that he hadn’t underestimated Sherlock after all. 

They looked at each other. Close; very close. He thought perhaps he hadn’t seen this expression before. It was something soft, something unguarded in a new way. Not the same as when he looked innocent on purpose. And Sherlock realised that this could not be an inane thing, because otherwise he’d understand - so he parted his lips to ask, and that was when Jim leaned in, and kissed him.

It was very soft. His lips were warm, and gentle, and the only thing Sherlock registered past the surprise was the faint smell of cologne on Jim’s cheek, no doubt applied when he shaved before dinner. And that was all; just softness, and the closeness of him, and the gentle spice that Sherlock knew he would never now forget. It made him dizzy, too hot, a flush rising up past his collar and breaking on his cheeks…and then it was over. Jim withdrew. For a few seconds, they just looked at each other. Sherlock could feel his pulse thudding his neck, but the world was so still it might as well have stopped. They just breathed, eye to eye.

And then Jim looked down, and away. His fingers tightened around his wine glass, and he lowered his head to sip from it. It looked furtive, and Sherlock wanted to take his hand, and say, _no, it’s all right_. But he couldn't make any words come at all. He couldn’t think past the warmth on his lips, and the terrifying seconds of Jim’s mouth on his.

‘London will be fun,’ Jim said eventually, his gaze fixed somewhere towards the horizon. His tone was quiet, and a new chill wound its way up Sherlock’s spine; the thrill of something different, something dark, something that was just for them. 

He knew that feeling would never go away. That when Jim was near, there would never be anything but excitement. The kiss, and whatever it meant, was only part of a whole. There was more to them than that - and he was not going to run away from any of it.

‘I know,’ he said, and smiled when Jim looked around. The sunset ceased to matter when their eyes met. The world fell away beneath them. Sherlock sipped his wine, and then held it out between them. Jim’s fingers touched his and drew it to his mouth, watching him as he drank.

‘I know,’ he said again, and felt nerves settle inside him. He knew. They knew. And the summer stretched before them; wild, and free, and theirs. They would have the world at their feet, someday. This was just the beginning. 

 

 

 


End file.
